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The past couple of weeks have tested our country as a whole. It is a sad and awful truth that the death of many innocent Black lives has to cease to exist in order for others to understand change.
My parents taught me at a young age the “Three Hs” to follow when pulled over by an officer: hands on the dashboard, head down and hope to God this routine stop won’t turn into another African American life lost. Unfortunately, like many young African American men and women, these rules did little to help once met by the face of a racist cop.
I was 16, fresh out of the DMV with a shiny license in tow. I was driving back late one night from gymnastics practice around 8:30 p.m. My dad was deployed to Iraq and my sister was off at Columbia studying. It was just me and my mom. It was a quiet life, but one we had grown used to and made the most of in a rather difficult time.
Upon arriving home, I noticed the garage door was missing the knob and my mother’s car was not in the driveway. My heart sunk as I staggered back away from the door and briskly ran to my car. Had someone broken into our house while my mother and I were out? I called my mom twice before pulling out of the driveway. Both calls were met with my mom’s cheerful voicemail. I was feeling anything but cheerful and was slowly becoming more aware of my need to leave my house before I was face-to-face with a masked stranger.
I decided I would drive around the neighborhood next to mine in order to give my mom time to respond. She would explain to me that the whole thing was one misunderstanding, or she would say, “I am glad you left and called the police!” I was sure of that.
As I drove around the next neighborhood over, I began to notice that a car was following quite close behind me. I assumed they wanted to get around so I put on my right-hand blinker and pulled over to the side of the road. The car proceeded to pull over with me — close enough that I could see it was a local police cruiser.
My palms began to sweat yet my whole mouth was completely dry. Did I mistakenly go through a red light or go above the speed limit? I decided neither of those options could be the case because the officers did not get out of the car or turn on their sirens. I began to merge back on to the main road and continue driving. As I continued driving, I noticed the police vehicle was still driving extremely close to me. Finally, after a couple of minutes, the officer turns on his siren signaling me to get over. I, of course, obliged, frightened for what was to come. I slowly rolled down the window, waiting in anticipation.
The middle-aged white police officer slowly scanned his eyes over my car. I waited to hear what my possible infarction could have been that warranted the stop. He slowly bended down to speak to me through the rolled-down window.
“You are awfully far from home,” he says gruffly. I shake my head and say, “No sir, I actually live in the neighborhood next door.” He looked at me and said he already knew that. He had scanned my license when he saw my car enter the neighborhood.
I said very lightly, not trying to sound confrontational or live up to what everyone calls the ‘Angry Black Woman stereotype: “Sir, is there a reason you decided to put me over?” He ignored my question completely and said, “You are awfully far away from home. Why is that?”
I was shaking at this point as I clumsily explained to him the garage doorknob was missing and my mom’s car wasn’t in the driveway. I was just waiting for my mom to answer my call. As I word vomited the whole explanation out in chunks, I finally got through it all and sat there silently waiting for his response.
“Do you think I am an idiot?” he says.
“Of course not, sir. I’m so frightened and scared about where my mom is and if there is someone in our house!”
The officer looked at me angrily at this point.
“Do not lie to me, tell the truth. You were driving around this neighborhood to start trouble weren’t you!”
I was trembling and crying at this point, snot bubbles spewing out of my nose. “No officer, I promise I am just waiting for my mom and I am scared and have nowhere else to go.
The officer sneered and said, “Fine. Then you won’t mind if I take you home to make sure you aren’t lying, because if you are, you will regret it.”
I gulped and said OK.
I slowly led the officer and his partner to my house, praying to God my mom would appear. As I swung my car around the street entering our cul de sac, I let out a sigh of relief. My mom’s car sat in the driveway, shining like a drop of water in the Sahara Desert. I hopped out of my car and sprint into the garage with the two white officers slowly trailing behind me. My mom walked into the garage and I rushed into her arms as I used to when I was five. I startled her with my unusual gesture. She looked up from me and her eyes grazed over the two officers. “May I help you officers?”
Before they could answer, I looked up and meekly said, “Are you alright? Were we robbed? What happened to the door?” All these questions swirl in my head, causing my heart rate to reach an all-time high. My mom calmly explained to the officers and myself that the garage door lock broke and she was unable to get into the house. She went across the street to our neighbor’s house to ask for help with the lock and the door. Our neighbor across the street had to disassemble the lock and take the door off the hinges so my mom could replace the door.
Once my mom was done explaining what happened to the officers, she looked at them again and said, “Is everything alright officers?”
The white middle-aged cop who spoke to me before came forward and slyly said, “We just wanted to make sure your daughter got home safe and sound; we were worried about her safety.”
My whole body went numb. I lost all hearing and speech. He lied. He did not care about my safety. He did not care about what happened to me or my mother. He cared about one thing: the small African American girl driving around a well-off majority-white neighborhood starting what he expected to be “trouble.” The two officers swiftly got in their car and headed out of our driveway.
Once the cruiser was out of sight I crumbled in my mom’s arms bawling my eyes out. She asked me what was wrong and through tears and shaking, I explained the events of that night. She was furious, but was also scared at what could have been if she had not been there when I drove the police officers to our home.
Although my experience was terrifying and seeing a police officer still makes me flinch, I am considered one of the lucky ones because I am alive to tell the story of my mistreatment. I was a high-caliber athlete on the road to becoming a division I gymnast. I didn’t party, I studied hard and got good grades. My mom was an elementary school principal and my dad was an engineer in the army. I came from a middle-class background and grew up with a family who loved me. But at that moment none of those factors matters; they washed away and all that was accounted for by the officer was the color of my skin. Because of what I looked like, the officer pulled me over because I committed the most heinous crime of them all and one that can lead to the death penalty for some: driving while Black.
I will never forget that day; it hangs in the back of my head at all times. I know I still remember that day painfully clearly, along with the fear I associate with law enforcement, while that officer probably forgot about the little Black troublemaker shortly after our encounter. I could pick his face out of a lineup to this day while he probably doesn’t even remember his act of racism. I can still hear his voice whispering in my ear, accusing me of starting trouble and making me undermine my worth.
The saddest thing I’ve learned after sharing this story with close friends and family is that it is not unique. I am not the exception. I am part of the majority of other African American men and women who have been racially persecuted or discriminated against. Breonna Taylor, George Floyd and Ahmaud Arbery need all of us to speak up and create change because they can no longer speak for themselves — that right was taken from them because of the color of their skin. Remember their names and fight for them. Fight for a better, more tolerant country.
